No Shame, No Fear
by mikachoo
Summary: Very angsty, and very depressing, but I was in a depressed state of mind when this story was conceived. But despite the angst, there is Jate. I hope you like it!


Disclaimer: I don't own LOST, I'm just borrowing for a bit of fun. Likewise with the title – borrowed from one of my favourite books, 'No Shame, No Fear' by Ann Turnbull.

_- The idea for this just sprang on me one night, at a quite inappropriate time (1 am), and of course I had to go and write, lest my brain not let me sleep. This is just a one-shot, set shortly after The Others release their captives. Sorry if this depresses some people – I was a bit angry at Kate, after the Skate kiss in S3. Hope you like it, please review!!! - _

_For Bryony._

No shame, no fear. No turning back. This was it. Her life in her hands – literally. The tiny little bottle of pills felt light, lighter than it should – it should have carried the heavy weight that daily crushed her heart, should have been her escape. It was…but it wasn't.

This wasn't the only way. Although it wasn't the quickest, it was the least painful. But she wondered whether she deserved to suffer. Unable to find a razor, or a blade, something, she'd turned to the medical supply, still in his tent.

No one had moved it. Excluding the odd survivor rifling through for an aspirin, it was exactly the same as he'd left it when they set off. And since they'd come back, no one had touched it. No one dared to. It was as if they left it in tribute, a reminder of their hero; now lost.

No one knew what had happened. Even Sawyer didn't know. It had only been them, them and The Others. It was so clear in her mind, so horribly painfully clear…

FLASHBACK

"Now! Tell us now or he dies."

She could feel the gun pressed against his head, his pain her own. She couldn't believe they would shoot. She didn't believe – they needed Jack, they'd said so themselves. They were only using him as leverage, because they knew how she felt about him. Even though he didn't.

"Three seconds, three seconds and I swear I'll shoot." He was bluffing. She could tell. When he reached zero, he'd probably put the safety back on the gun, kick Jack onto the floor and then come and slap her for being stubborn. She didn't care, she could take that. She refused to be manipulated like this.

Three… She was thinking about how hard he'd hit her. Last time, he'd bruised her, a horrible yellowy black discolouration on her cheek. It would probably be harder. She's given them trouble this week, going on a hunger strike, breaking free and attacking one of them, now this. Yes, she decided, it would hurt. But she'd just grimace and deal with it. She'd nursed worse injuries before.

Two… Jack's in a worse state than her. His clothes are filthy and torn from weeks of being kicked down into the mud, beaten up as a result of her stubbornness. It killed her to do it every time, but when she looked into his eyes, the guilt subsided. This was what he wanted – he wouldn't give in to them either. He would not be broken, wouldn't let them touch him. But after weeks and weeks of constantly fighting them, they'd all but won. They'd destroyed his body, beating him up so much that little of his skin could be seen beneath the bruises. His arm was at an awkward angle – twisted, bent slightly backwards. She realised in horror that it was broken. But Jack didn't say a word. Never once did he complain. He, like her, just dealt.

One… He looked up at her. His eyes were the one thing they couldn't change, showing the remaining spirit he had. They were still those same eyes she'd fallen in love with on that first day: rich, deep, intelligent, piercing brown eyes. Still those same eyes. But a sickening feeling came with that look. Because the guilt burning in her stomach didn't subside – it just grew. Because, for once, Jack wasn't staring at her with defiance. He wasn't staring at her with understanding. He was staring at her with fear. Her throat seized up, suddenly desperate to tell them everything, spill out every secret that she'd ever kept just to get that gun away from Jack's head; get that look away from those eyes.

But too late.

The gunshot made her flinch, her body seizing up with shock and panic. She saw him fall, hitting the floor with a thump, those beautiful eyes closed…hidden from her. At first she thought they'd just pushed him. And then the blood crept out, a sinister red stream that ran past his head, until soon he was lying in a small pool.

Guilt reared up inside her stomach and burnt her with a white hot flame. It scorched her soul, reduced her heart to ash. She was a dying ember, withering more and more each second. All the things she'd never said to him, all the things she'd never done. Every touch they'd never felt, every kiss they'd never shared stabbed her like a sharp knife of regret.

His blood was soaking through her trousers, now spanning the gap from where he lay to where she knelt. With a painful jerk she was brought to her feet again, then pushed roughly out of the room and out into the jungle, ending up in her cage again.

Sawyer saw the blood on her, immediately jumping up and firing questions at her. She could see his lips moving, but she didn't hear him. The echo of the gunshot still rang in her ears, resounding in her mind. But it didn't fade, like echoes should. It stayed, its desperate melancholy ringing reminding her of what she'd done.

END OF FLASHBACK

That was the fear. The fear because he was gone, because without him they were all doomed. The fear of what she'd done. The fear of who she was. Counting to five didn't work, because every time she said 'one' in her mind, she heard Ben counting down, the gun pressed against Jack's head. That didn't take away the fear. It only intensified it.

She finally got over the fear, letting the numbness take over, push the fear out. The numbness of grief, the numbness of loss. Painful, none the less, but healing. It gave her peace of mind, for a short while. But then they let them go, her and Sawyer. They struggled back to camp, the journey taking them almost two weeks. And when they'd gotten back, everyone had wanted to know where Jack was. Even Sawyer still didn't know. From that day, the day she'd murdered him, she'd been mute. It wasn't a decision – rather one that was made for her. Her throat wouldn't work, exhausted from the silent screams that every night she cried. No one pushed her, but they all jumped to conclusions. She was still wearing those clothes, the clothes with his blood. When they'd returned, everyone had thought it was one of The Others's blood. But suspicions had grown, brought on by the surge of gossip and the lack of information. Where was Jack? That what everyone wanted to know. And only she could ever truly answer that…

FLASHBACK

Their eyes were always on her, every where she went, even in her sleep. They were always watching, waiting for her to snap, waiting for her to confess. That she'd done it.

They'd all seen her mug shot by now. A stray gust of wind had blown it from his tent while they were gone, sending it spinning in the wind, eventually coming to rest on the beach. To be found by Claire. To be shown to Charlie. To be passed around the entire camp. The all wanted to know what she'd done, and why she wouldn't speak about Jack. Rumours spread that she was a murderer. Her silence upon return was only throwing fuel on the fire. At first they all wanted to know what she'd done to get a mug shot. Now they all wanted to know what she'd done to Jack. They all knew that she'd done something, somehow. But they still didn't know what.

She was sleeping in her tent. Well, pretending to sleep. They were gathered around the fire outside, exchanging the usual news over boar meat and fruit. The best was saved until last, whoever it was who eventually relinquished the information getting satisfaction from withholding it.

' …she was crying, just walking down the beach, and then she saw his tent and burst into tears…'

'A guilty conscience perhaps?'

'Oh shut up. She cared about him, every one knew that. She just misses him' Claire's thick Australian accent floated through the air. Kate smiled to herself, glad that through all this she still had a friend. But she was reminded but a sudden surge of hushed whispering that Claire was still part of the crowd, still one of the many that waited for her to spill the entire story out to them. A pack of dogs, they waited, circling, barking, sometimes biting, waiting…waiting until she gave up.

END OF FLASHBACK

First was the fear. Then the guilt.

If the fear had disorientated her, then the guilt knocked her out. It was like a vice, an steely grip around her heart, her lungs, her head. Moving hurt, breathing hurt…living hurt.

She didn't eat. She lost weight, to the point where her previously tight t-shirts and jeans hung off her. Sun had tried to coerce food into her, claiming that if she carried on, she'd be anorexic. She didn't care. Why did she deserve to eat, when she'd taken that privilege away from Jack? Why did she deserve to breathe, when Jack no longer could? Why did she deserve to live, when she'd taken away the life of someone else? Someone she loved, someone whose life was worth so much more than hers.

The cops had labelled her correctly after all. Murderer. At first the word seemed unnatural, cold on her tongue. She wasn't a murderer. She was just a confused young girl with an atomic bomb of anger and resentment inside of her. An energy so powerful that she had to release it. And Boom! The fierce explosion of the house mirrored the explosion inside of her, the explosion that freed her from the iron chains of hate.

That was then. But now? She wasn't so sure. This was the second time she'd killed a man she'd loved. So she didn't pull the trigger…what did it matter? She may as well have. It was her fault, no one else's. She'd been responsible for him…and then she'd killed him.

Murderer. The harsh syllables curled around her tongue easily, cushioning and comforting her. That was what she was, a murderer. For the first time in almost a month, she spoke.

"Murderer."

No one heard her. She was too deep in the jungle, lost. But it didn't matter – she wouldn't be going back. And she didn't want them to find her; no. Not until after.

She shouted it, her voice bouncing off the trees around her. A bird flew off overhead, startled by the sudden outburst.

It was real now. She'd said it – it was real. She was a murderer, without a doubt. Murderers kill people – take their lives. So now Kate was going to kill one last time. This time it wouldn't be a mistake: no, this time they deserved to die. She was going to take her own worthless life, to try and atone for what she'd done. For Wayne; For Tom.

For Jack.

She stared at the little blue bottle. Blue – she'd always hated blue. Gay, bright blues – they repulsed her. The only blue she'd ever loved was the blue of the sky, which she'd watched time and time again as she slept outside, hiding away from civilisation; from capture.

She struggled with the lid, her hands too slick with panic to grip the tiny thing. Perspiration started to run off her, the cold sweat of fear. She took off her long white shirt - his shirt - exposing her arms. Running the length of them, up and down were long thin purple scars. She loved to look at them, trace them with her fingertips, remind herself of the pain. The pain was good – the physical pain distracted her for a while, took the hurt away. The other hurt, the one that weighed heavy on her heart.

She finally undid the cap. The pills spilled out onto her palm. She counted them. There were only ten left, but that should be more than enough. They slipped easily down her throat, water or no water, her pure determination enough. Ironic, that it was Jack who had explained to her what these pills did…

FLASHBACK

"And those?" she pointed at the small blue bottle, bending down over him, delighting in the way he looked at her when she leant over like that.

"Painkillers, mild ones." He said, staring up at her, his eyes dancing. She was basically sitting in his lap, feigning interest in the collection of medicines in front of her.

"Uh-uh. And those?"

"Oh, those. I doubt I'll be using them. I don't know who had them on the plane, but I'm surprised they cleared customs. They're like a painkiller too, but so much stronger. They're for chronic pain. Three would knock you out, six would probably kill you. Maybe seven if you're lucky."

"Mmmm." She hadn't really been listening. She was too preoccupied studying his face, watching the way his eyes flickered with recognition every time she pointed to one of the little bottles. The way the excitement shined in them when he looked her, barely concealing the desire that lurked beneath.

END OF FLASHBACK

She can't remember a single one of the other medicines, but she remembered these. Her body started to feel stiff, and occasionally a shiver ran up and down her spine. Then her head spun. She lowered herself down from the log she'd been sitting on, lying on the lush green floor. She was laying sideways, one arm tucked to her chest, the other stretched out in front of her, stroking a blade of grass. Her vision kept blurring, swimming in front of her. Her throat was itching. And then she suddenly felt rigid, a semi-paralysis. She couldn't move.

She was no stranger to fear. She could recognise it immediately, and she felt it creeping on, slowly enveloping her in terror. But the one thing that still remained clear to her was Jack. His face didn't blur, it stayed fast, the rest of her memory, her thoughts deteriorating around her. His voice suddenly came into her head.

'One.' She remembered the way he'd explained it to her, his way of dealing with fear. She watched him, re-living some horrible memory just to comfort her, make her feel safe.

Two.' He always tried to make every one feel safe. He was a doctor – that was what he was supposed to do. But he'd always taken extra care of her. It had been nice, finally having someone to rely on, someone to trust.

'Three.' She found herself counting with him, in her head, trying to block out the pain, and the shock that was coursing through her body. She started to shake, violently, no longer having any control over her movements.

'Four.' That one kiss… that must have been heaven. However brief, however awkward he aftermath was, she didn't regret it. It was probably the only right thing she'd ever done in her life. She should've told him then, told him that she loved him. Now it was too late.

'Five.' She could feel herself slipping, into a deep black hole, bigger and blacker than the murky depths of unconsciousness. No time.

No time.

No shame, No fear – she was past that. All she felt was sweet, sweet release.

Five. And it all went away…

_- Was that too depressing? Let me know what you think.. In all honesty, I prefer writing one-shots to stories, so I had fun with this, despite the rather morose subject. Please, please review!!!- _


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